When the Sun Goes Down
by Purdy Owl
Summary: Ace inherited more than a name and hatred from Gol D. Roger: he inherited a curse, a disease, and a private madness.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **_One Piece_ does not belong to me, and it never will.  
**Warnings:** Language, reference to violence/slavery. Child abuse in the form of Garp.

**A/N:** I hate writing the brothers as children, but it worked out as a prologue. I guess. Don't hate on me; it had to be done. I had to speculate on this in some crazy, stupid, insane way that would make things scary and gross. But that's for the first chapter, right? Not the prologue.

Prologue's are innocent, for me, at least. But who knows? Maybe it really isn't all that innocent. I dunno, it's innocent compared to what I've got planned. P:

And, enjoy.

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**When the Sun Goes Down  
****Prologue  
**Darkness

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**I**t was quiet when he fled, fled into the woods, fists clenched tight until his knuckles turned white, and his fingers red. Behind him, the sun sunk lower, staining the sky in bloody reds, and soft oranges. The yellow disk itself was swallowed up by the trees and rough mountains hiding the blue sky. He, himself, ran towards the darkening sky, and he felt—to his horror—tears streaming down his face, and burning his cheeks. Looking back, it had been a stupid, dumb reason to get upset, because he could have easily prevented it if only—if _only_—he hadn't gotten mad at Luffy for the ignorant, stupid shit that came out of that innocent, but blunt kid. But he couldn't help it, he _had_ gotten mad, he _had_ told a five-year-old get to fuck off, and he _had_ turned tail and fled when that same kid stared back, dumbstruck.

He didn't know why he ran, but he had; ignored the cries of those moronic mountain bandits, and fled into the woods.

His face was hot, and his breath was harsh and short as he skidded to a halt, shoes tearing up the dark green grass, leaving dirt and worms and little white roots exposed in its wake.

Finally, Ace took a look around and found that he couldn't recognize where exactly he was in the woods, seeing only tall, ominous trees, and a creeping darkness making it impossible to see too far infront of his face. Tense and alert, the eight-year-old sat in a tangle of tree roots, forehead resting on his knees as he hugged himself. He wasn't scared—he wasn't even the slightest bit worried, because he knew, that when the sun shone in the sky again he would find his way back to the bandits' hideout, and he would, despite himself, apologize to his little brother, and that he would be forgiven.

Still, he struggled to stay calm as darkness limited his vision to a twelve-foot radius around his spot in the tangled, rough roots.

From sound alone, he could tell that somewhere up in the canopy, there was a snake moving around, and that there were birds shifting and settling down for the night; unaware of the threat. There was something large in the distance, but Ace could hear it eating—the snap and crunch of bones clear and crisp—so he wasn't in danger from whatever _that_ happened to be. Even so, he was on edge and shaking ever so, his heart beating and fluttering in strange, jittery bursts inside his chests, and his blood was rushing through his veins.

Forehead throbbing, veins pulsing in his wrists, he squeezed his eyes shut and willed the feeling of anticipation—leaden in his arms—to _go away, go away, goawaygoawayGOAWAY!_

And as he willed it to leave, it grew stronger and pulsed heavily, making his heart do a funny tumble-stutter-thump in his chest, and something made him look up to the tree branches weaving and hiding the sky except for little broken pieces. His heart quickened and his blood roared, his chest felt hot and his throat clenched, and he began to sweat as he stared up at the inky blackness—little white dots making up the stars in the heavens. Something, something—maybe it was instinct, maybe it was simple, pure chance—made him squint and search for something with his gray eyes, and he found it.

Ace found the moon, swollen and white—so, so, so _white_—peeking through the leaves, and his heart stopped.

It restarted but a moment later, and pain stretched out, and coursed through his veins. It was hot, like fire, and was running, running, rushing, coursing throughought his body, followed by a cold, liquid sensation the put out the fire. Several, aching, stretched out minutes passed as he sat, face screwed up in pain, and after what felt like an eternity of tortuous pain, everything ended and it felt as though nothing had happened. The only thing remaining from the sudden rush and hurt, was a strange soreness in his limbs.

Ace sat, mulling over what had just happened in curiousity and panic, the first, comprehensible thing that came out of his wonderings was—would that happen again?

Then, something dawned on him that he hadn't realized before, was that his heart had stopped beating, if only for a minute, and that thought terrfied him.

"—e?"

Sitting up and suddenly aware, and he murmured to himself, "Did I just—?"

"—ce!"

It was Luffy, he noticed dumbly as he heard his little brother's voice ring out in the darkness, attracting god-knows-what.

"Ace!"

Luffy was staring at him, eyes wide and bright, an idiotic smile stretching across his face, clutching his precious straw hat to his chest as he spotted his older brother leaning against the tree. Then he ran forward, arms outstretched, precious hat forgotten momentarily as it fluttered to the grass softly, and his face smacked into Ace's chest, causing him to wheeze. The younger buried his face into Ace's shirt, and cried out, "I'm sow'y, Ace! You're... not mad, anymore, are you?"

He noticed that Luffy had been crying; clean streaks of skin stood out against the usual filthiness, and he shook his head fiercely in reply, "No, I'm not mad."

"Whu.. why was Ace mad?" was the simple question that left him with a crinkled forehead as tried to remember what—just exactly _what_ he had been mad at.

In the end he shrugged, and returned the hug loosely, "Don't remember."

"...I'm lost," Luffy admitted, dumbly, as pulled away from the hug, and picked up his hat. He swung around and faced his brother, and asked, "D'you know the way?"

"When the sun's up," he patted the ground next to him, "We hafta wait."

"B-but, I don't like t-the dark," Luffy sputtered out, taking a sit next to Ace, and scooting closer, "N-not a-anymore."

Luffy didn't say why, but Ace knew, and scowled before pulling the brat closer, "You're not alone."

Closeness didn't help his younger brother, who shivered and clenched his precious hat tightly, staring around wildly, as if half expecting the entire forest to burst into flames. He would shift, uncomfortably, and scoot closer and closer to Ace, until he was practically glued to his side. By the time the silence got to Ace, Luffy was in his lap, settled into his brother's lap, breathing heavily as he stared out into the dark forest. Frowning, Ace tried to come up with something to pass the time, and decided finally, with a story.

"I'm gonna tell you a story," he said firmly, resting his chin in Luffy's dark, fluffy hair.

"Wha' kinda story?"

"A story kind of story, idiot," Ace remarked, "So shut up and listen."

"O-ookay."

"In a place _really_ far away—" He started off, recalling the story he had heard while sneaking around the village, it was a foggy memory at best, but he could always make up bits and pieces since it was just a story, "—there lived two brothers on their very own island. Every day they would wake up as the sun rose, and head out to the shore where they would catch fish and other creatures to eat. They would drink sea water, and boil it so that there wasn't any salt, and they would spend the rest of the day exploring the island they lived in, and playing. They played and played and played, until the sun went down, and the moon came up."

Luffy stared up at him in rapt fascination at the paradise described, as he continued, "But one day, on a ship, a bunch of bad men came. The brothers fought them, but the older one got hurt, and the men kidnapped his younger brother. By the full moon, the older brother promised he wouldn't rest until he found his little brother and brought him back to the island. He made a little boat out of the trees on the island and set sail. He didn't make it far—" Luffy gasped appropriately, "—because there was a horrible storm. His boat was destroyed, and he fell into the sea. He didn't come up at first."

"He stayed in the ocean, thinking that he had failed—that he would never, ever, ever see his little brother again, but then he remembered his promise, and came to the surface to find the storm had passed. Fueled by this sudden good luck, he swam in the direction of the setting sun, and eventually found himself on an island full of people. These people ignored his questions and stories about swimming across the ocean in search of his brother, and they laughed at him."

"Meanwhile, his little brother was trapped on the ship of the men, and they were headed unawares into a sea of monsters. Only a handful of men, including the little brother, survived the resulting battle—and it was a weary return to the island of the men, where the little brother was sold as a slave."

Overhead, the sky had turned a faint pink-ish color, and Luffy was half asleep in his lap, "And the older brother still searches, even to this day, for his little brother."

"Wha' were their names?" Luffy asked sleepily, fighting to keep his head up and awake.

Ace frowned, "Don't remember."

"How 'bout..." but he had fallen asleep while he was talking.

Smiling fondly, he pulled Luffy onto his back, and piggybacked him back to the bandit's hideout, thinking nothing of the strange pain he had felt.

It took only an hour, and by that time the sun was overhead, brightening everything up, and he could recognize familiar places. There were footsteps in the dirt, grass torn up from where he stepped down a little too hard, and certain trees that had been marked with charcoal that grew more numerous as they got closer to the hideout. Luffy was drooling on the crook of his neck, and it took all the patience he had to not bash the kid's head in for doing so—and he made a firm decision that before anything, he had to get more patient.

And more polite, like Makino had said he should be, since politeness required patience.

He wasn't feeling very polite, or very patient, when instead of a half-assed angry shout from Dadan, the greeting upon arrival at the hideout was a punch to the face, and Luffy being kicked—he went flying into a tree, while Ace found himself face first in the dirt. Such a greeting, coupled by a boisterous, loud voice, shouting out, "Grandpa's here! How 'bout a big, ol' hug?" Meant only one thing: Garp had come for a rare, albiet useless, visit.

Ace was about to spit out his genius remark to that when Luffy, who had woken up and had came running over ready to fight, paled and turned tail, screaming, "Nooo! Not the death hug!"

He watched the resulting scene that consisted of Luffy and Garp running in circles until the old man tripped and slid into a tree with minor interest. His face was carefully bland when Garp turned to him, spat the dirt out of his mouth, and pulled Ace into a bone crushing hug along with Luffy. Freed from the hug but moments later as the old man pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and handed it to Ace—who found that it was addressed to him, in writing he couldn't recognize.

He didn't have a chance to ask what it was about when Garp smacked Luffy for a final time, and declared that that was all he came for, and left.

Upon further inspection, Ace found that the envelope was not a crisp white, but was starting to turn yellow with age. His name was written sloppily, as if in haste, and there was a bloody fingerprint in one corner. There were yellower spots when something—tears?—had dropped in random upon it.

Curious, he broke the seal—red wax, with no significant image pressed in—and pulled out the slip of paper inside. It was older than the envelope.

"'_Do not fear the moon,_'" he read, squinting as he struggled to read the signature at the bottom, and found he couldn't make it out—it was sloppy and smudged.

He couldn't read the rest, but he had a feeling he didn't want to, and he stared at Luffy, who stared back. Then Luffy killed the mood by asking, "Wazzat mean?"

"Huh?"

"What do those funny things mean?" He asked again, pointing at the sentence, and Ace remembered that Luffy was still learning to read, much less write something besides his name.

The rest of the daylight hours were spent scratching words into the dirt with sticks, and teaching Luffy the _proper_ way to make beetles fight.

Soon enough, dinner had passed, and the sun was setting once again, with Luffy passed out and clinging to Ace's side. Sleep didn't come fast for Ace, in fact, it didn't come at all. He lay there, restless, minutes becoming hours, hours becoming days, until he couldn't take it anymore. He stood up, and made his way outside, and stared around him. It was dark, darker than it had been the other night, but lighter as well.

Because the moon was truly full that night; large and without a trace of darkness marring its perfect roundness.

Ace stared at the moon.

The moon stared back.

His heart stopped.

His heart started up again.

And when he woke up—for surely, he had been asleep after the pain had faded in his fingertips—there was blood in his mouth.

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**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this, and your curiosity has been piqued—and I am sorry, if you read "Survival", I took it down. Because I didn't like where I was headed with it; maybe, sometime in the future, I'll put it up again. Heavily edited and changed, but still, yeah.

I'm sorry about any grammar/punctuation mistakes. I read over it as many times as I could, and picked out all the obvious ones but, some will still have escaped me. Since I really don't care all that much about the finer points of the English language. Especially traditional sentence structure.

If you're smart, you've already realized what Ace inherited. If not, then don't worry about it. You'll find out soon.

Reviews make the world go 'round, so you know.


	2. Prelude: Part One

**Disclaimer:** _One Piece_ does not belong to me, and it never, ever will.  
**Warnings:** Violence, gore, language.

**A/N:** Reminding that I have shitty internet connection so these things take time to get up. Especially research to make sure most things I'm going into are... somewhat correct. Yuck. And a review of legends to compile a decent version of a werewolf.

Yeah. That's what Ace is. Not that big of a shock.

So, um, enjoy. c:

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**When the Sun Goes Down  
****Prelude: Part One  
**Scars

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**W**hen Ace woke up, face first in the dirt, eyes glazed over, side aching in pain, and barely able to breath, the first thing that he noticed that he couldn't remember how _exactly_ he ended up in that position. He remembered getting into a fight with—_with Teach_—and then a final, desperate attack, a bubbling, growing panic in the pit of his stomach, and then nothing. He couldn't remember if he had struck home, or if Teach had dealt the final blow. Mulling over this thought, he was able to ignore the stinging, aching pain that traveled up and down his body only just. But he could not bring himself to ignore the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and the feel of splinters and gravel digging into his cheek.

His attempt to move his arms to try and push himself into an upright position failed horribly: every muscle protested at the action, and he (sarcastically) thanked the higher power that supposedly watched over him for making it impossible to turn his head and see the damage done.

It would be an understatement to say he felt like shit at that moment.

Busy contemplating how long it would take for him to die, or someone to find him, or, on the off chance, to recover, he didn't hear the crunch of gravel nearby.

When he did, it was occampanied by an familiar, angry, rough voice, "Bleuh! What a—a _monster_, you are. Fuckin' tore me ear right off!"

_Good_, he wanted to spit in the traitor's face, _Good, good, and I would gladly tear off the other one for ya, so ya match._ But wasn't able to, as he wasn't able to settle for anything. He was effectively helpless to whatever Blackbeard waneted to do with him; whether it was bash his skull in, rip him to pieces, drag him off to the Marines, or leave him to rot. He was incapable of doing anything at the moment, he couldn't even tense up when he was kicked in the side. It was sharp, and it stung where the point of the boot connected with something broken or bruised.

Ace wanted to cry out in pain, wished he could for it would lessen the hurt, but instead he caught a glimpse of an ill-proportioned leg of one Marshall D. Teach through his bangs as his head shifted enough from the force of the kick for that to happen. Seething, he listened as other footsteps approach, and stared at the blood that dripped from the large man, gathering in a small pool inbetween shattered rocks, and frayed wood.

He focused on that, instead of the man before him, trying to hazard a guess of the damage done to his adversary in the tiny, warped reflection. All that he could make out was that half of Teach's face was coated in blood. If he could smile he would have, because at the very least, that amount of blood loss would make the man very lightheaded.

"Did you kill him? He ain't movin' I think he's dead," a sickly, weak voice rang out awkwardly in the silence of the ruin, "Very unlucky of him, but lucky for that Strawhat'd boy-o."

The only voice he recognized shouted out, cheerfully, "If he isn't dead right now, he will be within the hour, so it wouldn't be any use takin' his body back to the Marine HQ, would it now?"

"No, sir, no it wouldn't," came the unnecessary reply, and then, "So what'chu gonna do 'bout this?"

"I'll," Ace could hear the smile in that voice, thick and heavy and jovial, "take his pride and joy."

Despair settled on him at those words, and at the sound of a dagger being drawn from its sheath, his insides twisted in pain. In the tantalizingly slow three seconds it took for the cold metal to come in contact with his perpetually warm skin, he implored with every diety, every demon, every godforsaken saint that came to mind for what he suspected was about to happen, to simply _not happen_. _Godgodgodgod__**god**_—he begged, _pleasepleasepleasenot_that— To his misfortune and growing despair, it was _that_.

The blade slipped under his skin with relative ease, and the chill began to spread through his body as slowly, ever so slowly, tortureously around the mark emblazoned on his back. Bile rose and burned in his throat as the pain—the unbearable, suffering pain as skin was seperated painstakingly slowly from his flesh—brought white light and tears to his eyes. Mouth opening in a silent scream, saliva and hot, yellow slime dribbled down onto the ground as he suffered.

Fifteen minutes.

It took a revolting, endless fifteen minutes for the skin of his back to come off with a sickening sound.

It took another half second for the stinging pain of air to register on his exposed muscle tissue and veins.

It took another moment for the laughter to start.

The laughter was as sinister as it was hearty, it rang out in the silence of the destruction surrounding them, and burned into his mind as he lay there, burning with shame and horror. The moment was henceforth burned into his conscious, and the laughter along with it. It stuck and stayed and echoed even as the actual laughter ceased, and the traitourous bastard left with a statement, "Bet ol' Whitebeard with _love_ finding his precious 'son' dead like this."

_Death_.

If he had any sort of rationality available in that moment on intense despair and pain, he would have come to the conclusion that this was surely be where he died. He would die there from: a) shock, b) blood loss, or c) infection of the wounds. But there was no logic available in those agonizingly long moments of pain until his was simply incapable of feeling the excrutiating sensation any longer. It took all of a half hour for his brain to realize that saying there was _pain_ was alltogether worthless, and ceased from doing so.

From there onward his sense of time was skewed.

Hell, the very ability to comprehend anything felt loss between unconsciousness and attempts to move.

It was all a blur of rocks digging into his skin, blood—globs of sticky, hot, red slime clung to his throat and to his sides where it had ran down from his back. Movement, slow and halting, forced and accompanied by an ache in his limbs, and finally screaming in horror. Simple, pure, screaming. He screamed out his frustration, pain, suffering, and horror at the burning sun overhead. Hot tears had streamed down his face in what seemed merely like an ephemeral dream.

And here he had thought ephemeral things were supposed to be beautiful, wonderful, even.

Hours passed as the sun ran westward in the sky, bleeding out in the distance. Pale pinks, and burning crimson colors stained the blue sky. It was strangely wonderful to see, in his hazy, spinning world. And he smiled—oh, he smiled, because he figured that surely, surely, this was the part where he died. Where the struggling protagonist took his last breath while taking in a constant beauty of the world.

Oh, how Ace was wrong.

As there was the setting sun, there was the rising moon surrounded by its dark blue skies, and the twinkle of stars brimming forth.

It felt like a half-forgotten dream when he saw the full moon, and a familiar, commonplace, monthly horror of his mind resurfaced.

And then, as it was, he felt nothing.

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**A**ce almost expected to wake up in Hell. He opened his eyes and searched for the Devil himself there to spit in his face and dish out his awaiting punishment in the final layer of Hell. Instead he was surprised, pleasantly so, to find himself laying on his stomach in soft, squishy grass, staring at his hat (orange and bright, with a few splinters stuck in it), tattered clothes that couldn't have been his, and his cracked, albeit still in working condition, lockpost resting on top of the happy pile. Dumbstruck, he reached out to grab his hat and caress the soft material, and he realized, numbly, that it did not hurt to do this.

Upon further inspection he found that he could sit up with only a slight protest from his sore limbs. In response to the slow, careful act of pulling himself upright and placing his hat on his head, skin pulled tightly across his back. A tiny amount of disbelief and the simple idea that yesterday had merely been a horrible nightmare entered his mind as he tentatively reached around to touch what should have been muscle.

His calloused hand met only that strange feel of scar tissue—how smooth and rubbery it could be, yet knotted and harsh—covering most of his back.

Almost immediately he doubled over, a phantom pain sparked in his mind.

It raced along his spine and burned, bringing tears to his eyes; but he resisted the urge to succumb to his brain's dysfunctional reaction. The memory, which would have been beaten down and shoved to the back of his mind like the other horrible ones, yet as it was, was fresh in his mind and _burned_. For an approximate nine minutes, he relieved the sensation of being skinned, and when it was over he dry heaved once— twice— thrice— four times before he could sit up again without feeling anything but soreness.

Grimacing and covered with a thin layer of slimy sweat, Ace figured he ought to see if his _other_ injuries had been miraculously healed. And they were: what must have been three cracked ribs were back to normal; the dark bruises that had covered his side were now only faint, yellow smudges; the hundreds of tiny scrapes and cuts were gone; and it seemed like whatever had been internaly harmed was a-okay as well. Silently, he thanked whatever diety had mercy on him.

Suddenly—for some reason it hadn't occured to him before—he realized his current state of nudity, and pulled on the tattered clothes. When he was done, he looked a helluva lot like a poor, unfortune survivor of a shipwreck. Putting aside his naseau for the moment, Ace wrapped the lockpost around his wrist, and headed through the thin wall of trees. The trees eventually fell way to a white beach, with clear, blue waves crashing against it in bursts of white foam.

If (big _if_ there) he remembered correctly, his yellow skipper would be hidden somewhere along the shore, buried in a pile of dried palm leaves. With every footstep down the long stretch of sand, there was an accompanying _crunch_, and occasionally a snap if he stepped on a seashell. As he moved, he took note of the world around him. The harsh, blinding clarity of the sky, the lack of clouds; the calm, sweet breeze.

Palm trees dotted the edge of the wood, bases hidden in the tangle of grass and thorn, several coconuts buried deep in the sand in the shadows. Bird song erupted at random: from trilling, to successive cheeps, they gave the world its music after a pause here and there. Insects droned on endlessly to the sound of waves lapping the shores. A mess of dried leaves clumped oddly on the white sand—

Taking a deep breath, Ace jogged to the pile despite his protesting limbs, and pulled away the massive leaves bit by bit. A familiar, glossy, yellow surface began to reveal itself beneath the clump, and in the minutes it took to uncover the skipper, his heart speed up. It thrummed in his chest as he worked, working in strange ba-ra-thump-ump-umps, and his breath was coming in quick gasps. Ignoring it as best he could, he dragged the metal thing out to the edge of the water, where waves licked and darkened the shore.

He popped the metal mast in place and strung up the sail in preparation to leave. Taking one last look at the lockpost attached to his rest, he made sure it was in working condition for the moment, and stepped into the hollow compartment of the tiny craft, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Half a moment later, flames churned in the hollow area, forced through a thin tube that was connected to an opening containing the little boat's propeller, forcing hot air and the propeller to spin: making the thing go forward.

When he could no longer see the island behind him, he breathed a sigh of a relief, unconsciously leaning onto the metal pole behind him as he often did when there was nothing else to see but blue skies and blue seas. He regretted the action in an instant, and he doubled over as the skipper came to an abrupt stop. Couched in the smooth, metal hollow, his breaths came in short, staggering gasps.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Ace was forced to remind himself how to breath as he felt his heart speed up and skip over as the strange, phantom sensation of a metal knife sliding under his skin forced the memory to replay in his mind. He was hyperventilating by the halfway point of the memory, and he knew that if he couldn't start breathing regularly, either his heart would go out, or he would choke on air (a ridiculous death like that wouldn't sit well with him).

He inhaled through his nose forcefully, and exhaled through his mouth.

It was a noisy endeavor and it took a while for him to calm down enough that his mind was back in proper working order.

"This's going to be a problem," he muttered the obvious to the silence surrounding his panic attack.

This time around, he checked the lockpost to make sure he was headed the right way before letting the flames do their work, and he kept up a conscious mind of not leaning back. Eventually, he stretched out a hand to clasp around the metal mast, to prevent himself from leaning on it.

On the outside, the only sign of his inner turmoil was the scowl marred his features, and the slight tensing of his muscles.

Of all the things he could have been thinking of, he was thinking of how he didn't want to go—_crawling—_back to Whitebeard when his back was marred by a scar, and his mind was struggling with an even deeper one. While the traitorous bastard was still loose doing god-knows-what, and while, while—technically, he was dead to the world, if Teach's words were anything to go by.

As that thought came to him, a promise of time ago came to mind, and suddenly, suddenly, his throat clenched and his heart stuttered.

And he thought of his little brother and the damage that that article (definitely the headliner) would cause.

Then Ace knew where he was going to go.

_Don't worry, Luffy, m'not dead yet._

_

* * *

_

**T**he island Ace came to, three days later, was a small island called Smee, with a tiny town consisting of people, a lavish hotel, several bars, a clothing store, a hospital, and a restaurant or two. There were about twenty boats, ranging from large to small, but none were pirate or marine vessels, docked at the small resort island. It was around midnight when he arrived, the waning moon almost directly overhead, small and distant seeming as shadows licked its whiteness. He tied his little skipper to the dock, and made his way to the town, almost hoping someone would take pity on him (since he looked like the survivor of a shipwreck).

As he stepped onto the trodden path, he noticed a newspaper lying on the ground, and almost rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the news-pelicans; just dropping a newspaper where ever they wanted. Curiosity as to whether or not there was an article about him, Ace picked up the newspaper and skimmed over it as he headed towards the closed clothing store. Idly, he opened the paper up and stared, dumbly as he read the headline; "FIRE FIST ACE: DEAD! WHITEBEARD: ENRAGED!"

He read this article with interest as he leaned on the door of the clothing store, feeling the wood through the shirt on his back:

_**FIRE FIST ACE: DEAD! WHITEBEARD: ENRAGED!**_

_Shock and awe ran through the Marine HQ's when a previously unknown pirate by the calling of Blackbeard submitted his name for the title of Shichibukai; and even more to the amazement of myself was that he arrived baring a so-called 'proof' that he had killed Fire Fist Ace. Of course, at the conference I was one of the few reporters to be allowed in, but to the collective amazement of the gathered Admirals, Vice Admirals, Marines, and Shichibukai, this 'Blackbeard' presented to us a slab of skin baring Whitebeard's mark. No man of Whitebeard's would ever be alive without his mark._

_So with this there was proof that Fire Fist Ace was dead and the pace was in a uproar—_

Ace couldn't read on, and he tossed the paper to the ground, stomping on it as a final measure. It was official. He was dead. Dead and gone—now, no one would look at him and think he was a wanted man, he would just be _that guy_. Unless, of course, he did something drastic and the connections were made. He prayed that, where ever Luffy was, he was reading this article and looking at the Vivre Card. Looking, and realizing that he couldn't be dead because the paper was still there.

Hopefully. But he wasn't too hopeful, considering it _was_ Luffy.

Then, since he couldn't do too much about those pesky what if's, he turned around and started fiddling with the lock on the door, and only grunted when he succeeded in popping the door open. He had no qualms with breaking and entering as a pirate, and former child-thief. There was no one out and about except the occasional drunkard being shoved out of a pub, but he still went about his business quickly. Upon entering, he realized the place sold more than just clothes.

Which was good for him, since not only by the end of his raid, did he have new clothes on his back, new shoes, and a new backpack (with a wad of crisp belli from the cash register, and extra clothes, and a new water canteen), he also had a brand-spanking-new lockpost. He felt odd wearing a shirt when he hadn't, but now there was nothing to be proud of on his back. Just an ugly scar.

Done with his raiding, he left as quietly as he came, and relocked the door.

As if he hadn't just finished robbing a store, he headed towards the nearest pub, keen on getting some information as to the situation of things since his death, and wandered into the midst of drunken vacationers gathered about. Laughing, catcalls, and various other sounds filled the air. But those were usual this late at night after so many drinks, and he sighed as he came to an empty seat at the bar and ordered a bottle of their finest.

While he waited, he caught a snippet of conversation by two men conversing nearby.

"Damn! Why'd they send us to catch them wolves?" The man's voice was rough, and it matched his appearance, with an unkempt beard and tangled hair, three scars were a blemish on his face from the man's hairline crossing down the entire right side of his face.

The other man had a strange, flawlessness to his face: everything was symmetrical and aligned, as if he were made, not born. It was slightly unnerving to find that the man's bright, blue eyes turned to stare at Ace as he replied to his companion, "_Because_, Thompson, they're monsters. 'Them wolves' as you call them, they're _monsters_. No right to even walk this earth, so we're catching the buggers and lockin' them up tight until we figure out how to kill them."

"But... what 'bout silver, Greg'ry?"

"Only impairs the healing, dumbass."

"Ay! I res, res, resent that."

Ace took a huge gulp from his glass, wincing when the bitter taste burned his throat, and turned his gaze away but still keeping his ears in attention. For some reason, a part of him was saying that pit was important to listen to this odd conversation. Especially since the odd man, Gregory, had glanced at him when giving his bit about the wolves being monsters.

"But there ain't no challenge in catchin' the wolves, even if they're hard ta find," Thompson rumbled, "They just regular wolves with human minds, in the end, so uh, why we sent again?"

"_Because_ this island is supposedly home to a _pack_ of them. And perhaps one of them is of a pure line, or pure enough that it has very little made ancestors, understand?"

"Wasn't that them pures wiped out long ago?"

"Only one line remained, but no one knows who his descendants were."

"Oooohhh, but, uh, why're findin' them pure wolves important?"

Gregory looked about ready to smash Thompson's face in at this point, clearly he was infuriated by the idiocy that was his companion (while Ace, was, of course thankful, seeing as he was getting so much information), "The pure wolves are the real monsters; massive beasts... are you even listening?"

But Thompson was already gone, having wandered over to a pretty waitress.

Ace shook his head, returning to his drink, shoving away the oddness of that whole conversation. Wolves? Monsters? Pure? Made? Those words in the context they were used had very little meaning to him. Taking a deep breath, he asked the bartender if their was a reasonably cheap place to stay, and headed in the direction described.

He put all that nonsense behind him and settled down for a night in his rented room.

* * *

**A/N: **Because I hate that fugly tattoo of Whitebeard's that goes on each of his crew member's backs. And I thought it would be an exciting thing for Ace to have a denial about. Because. Yeah. There's a lot of psychological issues that would come with something of that magnitude. Phantom pains, considering it healed afterwards, panic attacks when something reminded him of the memory, etc. I did some research. o:

Also: there's a reason it goes like this. There is. There are a couple (but not a lot) more parts to the prelude, where stuff _happens_.

Then we get going for REAL. Or something like that.

**Skipper:** I'm describing Ace' yellow metal banana thing as a skipper, which my nautically-versed uncle said was what it would be. I have _no_ idea if it's a real type of boat, but that's what I'm calling it. Since it also sounds cool. :3

I suck at ending chapters. I think. And I write better listening to Rihanna. No idea why, but I do. _Weird_.

Anywhos, reviews are love, and have a nice day.


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